Ancient
by Melpomene17
Summary: Twenty years have passed since Eragon and Saphira left Alagaesia. Their students are thriving, there is peace in the land, and all is well . . . or so it would seem. But deep within the bones of the earth an ancient race is stirring, as old as the dragons themselves. A race whose fury threatens to tear the world apart at the very seams.


_AN: Thank you for visiting my story. This will be a continuation of Eragon and Saphira's story twenty years after they begin training new Riders. comments and constrictive criticism are always appreciated so please leave a review!_

Chapter 1

Eragon sat on a plain straw chair inside the small hut he had fashioned after Oromis's, peering into the mirror before him. The mirror was enchanted so that was not his own face that looked back at him, but that of his cousin Roran. It was something he did often, using enchanted mirrors to communicate with those he had left behind.

Twenty years had passed since Eragon had seen anyone from Algaesia in the flesh, and although his own appearance had not changed significantly, the ravages of time were clear in Roran's – the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the lines on his forehead, and the gray hairs sprinkled throughout his beard. He looked, Eragon thought, more like Garrow than ever.

"– Her hands full, keeping up with Gertrude." Roran was shaking his head, though he spoke with good humor. "She's held on for more than her given years, Gertrude has. It'd be better for all of us if she'd just give up and die but . . ." he trailed off, then brightened. "I do have some good news though!"

"And what might that be?" Eragon asked.

His cousin smiled, scratching at his beard. "Perhaps it'd be best if Ismira told you." He stepped out of view and his daughter rushed in, her blue eyes alight and her copper hair unbound. She had the same thin face as her grandfather Sloan, and she was tall like Roran, but in her demeanor she resembled Katrina most of all, usually presenting an air of quiet strength.

Today, however, Ismira seemed unusually excited and flustered. "Uncle Eragon!" she exclaimed, "You'll never guess. I'm –" she broke off and glanced excitedly towards her right, presumably where Roran was, then turned back to Eragon. "I'm getting married!" she finished with an excited squeak.

Eragon grinned. "Congratulations to you! By Orik's beard, the time moves quickly. It seems like only yesterday you were a newborn. I presume the lucky fellow is that Boylan lad you were telling me about, hm?"

"Yes." Said Ismira, two spots of color appearing bright on her cheeks, "He's very sweet."

He chuckled, remembering how the last time he'd talked to his niece, she'd spoken of nothing but Boylan. "I'm sure he is. And I fully expect to have my mirror in a front row seat so that Saphira and I might watch the ceremony."

"Of course!" she replied, "We'd never dream of leaving you out."

As Eragon and Ismira spoke more about her wedding plans, Eragon sensed a familiar touch on his conscience; that of Finnoula the elf, who had been with him as one of Blohdgorm's spellcasters since before Uru'baen.

 _Shadeslayer, Brightscales!_ Her mental voice was urgent, and yet he also detected a hint of excitement that elves so rarely expressed. _Come quickly! They approach!_

 _We shall be there shortly_. He assured her, then returned to Ismira in the mirror, who was busy reciting the list of decorations. He waited for her to take a breath before speaking.

"I apologize for being so abrupt, but there is an urgent matter that requires my immediate attention, so I must say my farewells and be on my way."

Ismira blinked, as if startled. "Oh, yes of course. I'm sorry to have babbled for so long."

"Don't be sorry. It is good to see you so cheerful." Eragon smiled, "And I will be sure to send my wedding gift to you before long."

With hurried goodbyes to the family and the promise that he they would talk again soon, Eragon severed the connection and the mirror became just a mirror once more, his deceptively young face the only thing looking out at him.

Belting Brisingr to his waist for show – he wouldn't be needing to use it for this event, Eragon strode out of his hut to where Saphira was waiting for him, her saddle already fixed in place. She was so big that even when she was laying with her underside pressed to the ground, he had to climb onto her foreleg, then jump upwards to the knobby footholds of her wing socket, and from there it was an awkward leap to the saddle where he fitted his legs into the loops.

With a rush of air and the sound of beating wings, Saphira took off, lifting her massive bulk into the sky. She was nowhere near as big as Glaedr had once been, but nor was she as small as she had been when they'd fought Galbatorix and Shruiken twenty years ago.

Together, they flew for about a quarter of an hour to where Blohdgorm and his eight spellcasters were already gathered, nodding in greeting. Saphira landed but Eragon remained on her back, and the eleven of them stood there waiting in comfortable silence, a small welcoming committee.

Eragon searched the sky and his eyes immediately fixed on a red glimmer drawing ever closer from the western horizon. Unable to contain himself, he let out a joyful whoop, though he knew he was too far away to be heard.

 _Soon_! He said to Saphira.

 _Soon_ , _Little One._ She agreed.


End file.
